


What Dreams May Come

by astudyinrose



Series: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mild Language, Nightmares, OTP Feels, POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sexual Content, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock's Violin, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks have passed since Sherlock returned, and John still has panic attacks and nightmares almost every night. They try to settle back into the pattern of their old life, but they both come to realize that it is harder than it seems. Sherlock attempts to cure John's PTSD which proves more difficult this time. After one too many dangerous experiments in the flat, John makes Sherlock start going on cases again without him. He can't face the crime scenes, and the corpses. They remind him too much of Sherlock's broken body on the pavement...</p><p>Part II of II. [For Part I see "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream" by astudyinrose]</p><p>From both John's and Sherlock's POV. M for Mature Johnlock content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much to lovelysherlock (aka fluffbatch here on A03), for being an excellent and honest beta, and for calming my nerves during this process.

 

* * *

 

To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,  
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come...

-W. Shakespeare, Hamlet

* * *

_Sherlock is standing on the roof of St. Bart's, his wool coat billowing behind him in the wind. I am rooted to the spot, unable to believe what's in front of my eyes._

_“Goodbye, John,” he says, calmly dropping the phone behind him._

_“No, don’t,” I gasp, still disbelieving, as he dives off the roof..._

“Sherlock!” I scream, waking myself from the nightmare. I shoot straight up in bed, tangled in my covers. I have obviously been tossing and turning in my sleep. Tears are running freely down my face as I try to kick my feet free. The dream is still so vivid, burned on my vision... Sherlock’s crumpled body on the pavement. His beautiful face, scratched, his hair dripping with blood. Someone pulling me away. I rub my face with my hand.

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and down the hall, purposeful, intent. _Who...?_ My door bursts open. I stare at the apparition. For a moment I have forgotten where I am.

“John?”

It’s Sherlock, his hair tousled angelically, wearing a shirt, pyjama bottoms and his dressing robe. His eyes are half-closed with sleep, and he looks unrested. He has been on a case for several days, and he probably only just passed out an hour ago, even though the first slanting rays of dawn are coming through the window.

“Was it Afghanistan?” he asks, still hovering at the door, uncertain.

“Sherlock,” I mumble, still half asleep, still breathing heavily. I shake my head. “I had... I dreamt you died again. The same nightmare as always. Of you... jumping.” I hold my head in my hands. My brain is still trying to reconcile the two conflicting images; of the bloody Sherlock sprawled on the pavement, and the one standing here, very much alive.

His brow furrows in concern, and he releases the door handle to walk over to my bed. He sits down carefully, as though he is afraid I might panic again, and he takes my hand. “I’m still here.”

“I _know_ that,” I snap. I’m not sure why I am irritated. It has only been a few weeks since Sherlock’s return, and this reality, the one in which he is still here, is the one that sometimes still seems like a dream. 

“John, look at me.” I look up, and his face is close, so close. I inhale his scent, of formaldehyde from the morgue, of some expensive shampoo. I look right into his astonishing eyes, which change from green, to blue, to a luminescent hazel depending on the light. Right now they are a clear deep blue. As usual, I’m mesmerized. He waits patiently as my breathing starts to normalize. I can’t help but let my eyes creep down his face to his full mouth. Those soft lips that I have barely begun to explore.

Sherlock has been insistent that we take everything slowly, as if afraid I might crack under the pressure. The few times we have kissed, he always stops before we go far. I haven’t wanted to push him, either. In fact, I'm still not sure if physical intimacy is something he even wants.  _“Sex doesn’t alarm me.” Sherlock said. “How would you know?” Mycroft replied, smirking._

I haven’t really asked him. I never asked what happened that night I left him with Irene, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I felt unease clench in my stomach as I left them, which I now know was probably jealousy. But he admitted that he has never loved anyone before. “I have no data to compare this with,” he said that day in the hospital.  I just don’t know if that extends to sex.

When I was released from the hospital, he took me straight to Baker Street, no discussion necessary. A few boxes of my things magically appeared within a few days, and we never spoke of the tiny monochromatic flat.  He was a bit ruffled about his lab equipment, but he soon replaced everything. When I told him that Moran had written on the inside of his skull, he finally let Mrs. Hudson throw it away. I was almost sad to see it go, though it would remind me of... what happened.

The first couple of weeks, Sherlock tiptoed around me like I was an invalid. Made of glass. He was protective and gentle, used hushed tones. So unlike the Sherlock from before the Fall that sometimes I'm not sure it is really him. He brought me tea in bed, even bought the milk, and helped me downstairs from my room for the first couple of days, despite my protests that I was _just fine_ and that he could bugger off.

In revenge, I try to make him eat and sleep. He has gotten thin, too thin during his time abroad, hunting Moran. He didn’t have me to badger him into eating. Mrs. Hudson helps me in that endeavor by baking nonstop. I think she’s just so happy that we are both back. She was probably lonely.

I am still not used to seeing him. Sometimes I forget he isn’t dead. I wake up, groggily plod downstairs, and make some tea. Then I drop the cup on the ground, smashing it to pieces, when he casually walks around the corner. Like a ghost incarnate.

He also doesn’t like me to leave the flat, and he never lets me leave alone. I can tell he's worried that Moriarty will attempt to off me again, if not in such an elegant manner as last time. I like to point out that it’s more likely he will try to kill Sherlock, but Sherlock dismisses that as irrelevant. Moriarty has slipped into obscurity again, possibly just biding his time, hatching new plots. God knows. His web has been all but destroyed thanks to Sherlock, and Moran is in custody awaiting trial for Harry's murder. Maybe he has found new people to torment. Maybe he is bored with us. _I hope._

Sherlock wouldn’t take cases at first, saying flippantly he wanted to take a break from working.  But after a few days I could tell he was bored, manic. One day I came down to find him systematically throwing flaming darts at the cow skull hung on the wall (“ _it’s an experiment, John”_).  After that I insisted he go when Lestrade called, just to get him out of the flat. But I couldn’t join him. I couldn’t stand to see bodies lying sprawled out on the ground... I try to ignore his hurt look when I refuse time after time. I can’t explain it to him. Not yet.

I never tell him, but those days and nights when he disappears for hours at a time are the hardest for me. It’s much easier to imagine that he is still gone, that I had been hallucinating his return all along, when I am alone in the flat. I watch crap telly, or write drafts of entries for my blog (I had let it go fallow during Sherlock’s absence). I’m trying to find the words to explain his return. Clear his name once and for all. After all, Moran is proof that Sherlock wasn't fake. I made “Ophelia and Hamlet” the working title, but explaining the whole story would effectively be outing us as a couple, something I’m not sure either of us is ready for. Maybe “London Bridge Fell Down” would be better. Nice and sensationalist.

Sometimes I simply sit in Sherlock’s armchair, turning it toward the street, sipping tea and watching the passersby. It’s relaxing. I try to practice my deduction skills, scrutinizing the way a person dresses or walks and trying to figure out their life story. I’m not very good at it. But sometimes, something triggers a memory. A child falls down on the sidewalk, or a repair man appears on a roof across the street. And then I see Sherlock standing on the roof again. I see the swish of his cloak as he jumps, how it fans out behind him as he falls. And I start to hyperventilate. It takes me unawares every time, pain in my chest, feeling like I'm drowning. But I can usually get it under control by the time he returns.

Once, though, I was still in the middle of a panic attack when Sherlock swirled up the stairs. “John, there was a triple murder in Chiswick. The dog hair on his jumper, it was so _obvious_...” he started to say, then he saw me sitting in his chair, head in my hands, breathing raggedly, tea spilled on the ground. Without saying a word, he walked over briskly, pulling me onto the couch and holding me until the panic subsided. I found myself clutching the lapel of his coat, tucking my head into his neck while I cried like a child. It was the only thing that drove the visions from my head. Considering the fact that he calls himself a sociopath, Sherlock seems rather good at this.

Now, he is staring at me, hands on my shoulders, evaluating my face and body language. His mind is whirling, trying to deduce my physical state, what he should do to comfort me. My terror has subsided, though it's still not completely gone. I still looking at those perfect lips. I see them twitch into a smile, because he knows exactly what I'm thinking about. I smile too, and lean forward without hesitation.

Every time I kiss Sherlock, it’s like the first time. I always gasp with the magnitude of it, sudden feeling of falling in my stomach, like vertigo. We haven’t kissed many times, but it is like nothing I have ever experienced. Like there is a spark of electricity between us. I start with a soft kiss, just feeling him, tasting him. I run my tongue over the cupid’s bow. He shudders. I have a feeling he hasn’t done this many times before, and he never leads. He stays relatively still, as if worried that making sudden movements might set off a panic attack again. But my fear has been replaced by visceral, primal hunger. I sit up onto my knees so I'm more on his level, twisting my right hand in his curls while my left skims his cheekbone. I'm not wearing a shirt, and his cold hands on the hot skin of my chest make me shiver. I still can’t believe that this beautiful, terrifying, complicated creature is mine. I am still afraid to lose him again. The pain, the years of limbo, the despair--it all still hasn’t gone away.

I press my tongue into his mouth, and he separates his lips to make room, breathing heavily. I can feel his pulse accelerating. I put both my hands in his hair and kiss him with reckless abandon, feeling like I'm drowning in Sherlock. Losing myself in him to forget the feeling of loss, the images of his blood on the sidewalk, and the fear in the pit of my stomach...

“John,” Sherlock breaks free eventually, pulling back. I whimper my protest, not wanting to stop. I open my eyes, looking up at him. My pulse is racing. His hair is sticking up in all directions, and his lips are slightly pinker than before. He looks quite debauched. It makes his serious face all the more comical. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “John, as much as I would like to continue to explore new data in this area, you have just been having a panic attack in your sleep, and I haven’t slept in several days. You need rest and so do I.”

I fake a grimace. “Transport. Besides, I never sleep after the nightmares.” I lean in to kiss him again, as if that settled the argument.

He cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head back, processing this information. _Bugger._

“How often do you have these nightmares? What about? You never sleep afterward?”

I sigh. I might as well tell him. I look away, releasing his crown of dark curls and sitting back. “I have them several times a week. On a bad night, a few times a night. About Afghanistan, you falling, Harry’s death. But mostly you.” I rub my eyes with my hands, trying not to let the image of his body come back unbidden.

“Even after I came back?”

“Even then.”

Sherlock is silent, but I can practically hear him thinking, considering possibilities, options.

Finally, he pulls me up by the shoulders, and looks me in the eye. “John, I propose an experiment.”  I chuckle, but he remains serious. “Just try it. If it doesn't work, we will pursue other solutions. PTSD is extremely variable from case to case, so we may have to adjust our approach.”

I sigh. Sherlock is impossible when he gets into the experimental frame of mind, but he was right about how to cure my limp. I shrug, resigned. “Very well. If we can’t snog I might as well try to get some more sleep. What're you going to do?” I look at him suspiciously.

He smiles that cocky half-smile, which makes my heart start beating frantically. _How do you do this to me so easily? Do I have this effect on you?_ Then he simply says, “This.”

In one fluid motion, he swings his legs around, and pulls me down onto the bed. I'm lying in front of him, my back to his front, and his lanky arms and legs are ensconcing me. His nose is nuzzled into the back of my head, and he breathes in deeply. “Sherlock...” I start, about to protest. We haven’t slept in the same bed before, of course. It would fall under the category of “moving too fast.” I feel like I'm wrapped in a huge, long-limbed blanket.

“Sherlock, what're you doing?” I mumble into the pillow.

“Infants have been proven to sleep better through the night by being swaddled, John. I’m utilizing the same technique to see if PTSD nightmares can be avoided in the same manner.” 

I open my mouth to argue, but his breathing against my neck stops me. _Why am I objecting to this?_ This is the most physical contact Sherlock has ever initiated. I wasn’t even sure if sleeping like this would be something he would ever want, yet he did it with such apparent ease. I hadn’t realized that I wanted it until now, either.

“Relax, John. Stop thinking so much and try to sleep.” 

I try to relax into a comfortable position. “Are you sure you don’t want to just snog some more?”

He snorts into my neck. I smile. Then he does something even more unexpected. I feel his lips under my ear, just light brushing, leaving a trail of kisses down my neck to my collarbone. I sigh, closing my eyes. “You've never done this before? Really?” I mumble.

He laughs again. “I never said I had never kissed anyone. I just said that it's not my area. And it doesn't mean I've never _observed_ what others find pleasurable. I have simply never had the desire to replicate it until now.”

I consider this for a moment. “So you _have_ snogged someone before?”

Sherlock snorts again, which tickles my neck. “Yes, I have ‘snogged’ someone before, as you so elegantly put it, but it was a long time ago. A few someones. I found it boring. I quickly lost interest.” He starts to nuzzle my neck again. This kind of affection is so completely at odds from the words coming out of his mouth that I am taken off guard, yet again.

“Men or women?”

“Does it matter? It was a selection of both varieties.” He starts to nuzzle my ear. I'm barely able to concentrate.

“That’s very distracting, you know.”  He mumbles assent. I pause. “What about Irene?”

The nuzzling stops. “No.” The long arms wrap around me more tightly.

“That’s it? No further explanation?” I clear my throat. “You seemed so... erm... when she faked her death, I thought that you had been... involved at least.”

_Why am I bringing this up now? Do I want him to tell me that I'm his second choice, that if Irene were alive he would be holding her right now instead of me?_

Sherlock sighs again. He shifts slightly, as if weighing his words. “Irene was like a rare bird, an intricate butterfly. I was fascinated by her, and marveled that she was able to outwit me, especially more than once. It was an even more interesting game than with Moriarty, because she managed to confuse me. Her death seemed like a tragedy to me for that reason.”

I tense a little. Now that we're talking about it, I’m not sure I want to know.

Sherlock must feel the tension in my muscles. “I said I was _fascinated by her,_ John. Not _in love_ with her. I meant it when I said I have no data to compare what I feel towards you. And she and I barely touched. I felt a measure of physical attraction, much as someone observes they have a papercut: annoyed, but not incapacitated. I was never tempted to act on it. That happens from time to time.”

He pauses. “She’s not dead, you know. I saved her from those terrorists. She wasn’t beheaded.”

“You _knew?_ Why did you let me go through the charade of telling you she was in witness protection?” I try to turn around but the spider-limbs just clutch me tighter.

“Irrelevant.” The kisses begin again. “The point being: she's alive. I'm here with you. Your jealousy on this front is unfounded.”

I squirm a little, wondering how he knew exactly what I was thinking. _It must be obvious_.

I realize something else. “A _papercut?_ An annoying papercut? That’s what arousal has always been to you? So when Mycroft inferred you had never had sex, he wasn't just teasing?”

His body stills, just a little. Then he sighs. “Well, not that it's his business, but I never progressed past a certain point. After all, if the preliminaries were less than satisfactory, why continue?”

I sit up and turn to look down at him, trying to disengage myself from his long limbs. “Sherlock. Are you telling me that you're a... virgin?” He shrugs, but his eyes are fixed on me with a twinge of what could be apprehension.

“Sherlock, I-- I didn’t realize...” He's still looking at me, but I can’t read his expression. His eyes seem to have a mixture of anticipation, unease, and some other emotion that I can’t quite place.

Finally, I shake my head and lean down to kiss him briefly. “I didn’t know, at least for certain. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I’m in uncharted territory myself. But I had no idea just how much of it was uncharted to you _._ ”

I stop for a moment, realizing that I have to make things even clearer than that. I touch his hair, the side of his face, his head nudges into my hand. _I wonder if he knows he's doing that._

Anxiety starts to settle in my stomach again. _What if he is only doing all of this to make me happy, and not because he wants to? Out of some strange sense of duty or penance? The physical part at least. Or... all of it? Out of guilt?_ Creeping doubt starts to enter my mind. _Stop it, Watson._

I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to push you too hard. If you don’t want to have anything more than this, that’s fine. I just want you. To be with you. If you're asexual... and sex, even kissing, disinterests you, I will be fine with just us. You don’t have to do any of it just for me.”

I put my hand on his chest for emphasis. My own chest is feeling a little tight again. “I can’t lose you again Sherlock. If you don’t want it, I don't want it either. But I can’t live without you. I was only half alive when you were gone.”

I hold myself back from saying the rest of the words on the tip of my tongue:  _Please. Please don't leave me again. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't mean to make you do something you didn't want. I love you too much._

He observes me with those laser-beam, calculating eyes.  “I meant what I said that day, John. I kissed you because it felt natural. I have never actually _wanted_ to do that before. I would say that ‘disinterest’ is the farthest thing from how I would describe it.”

I look at him, gulping. “So...”

He laughs exasperatedly. “I never said that my body doesn’t respond to stimuli. But I've never enjoyed being aroused before. So, really, I did think I was ace. Before."

My mind spins, and it tries to process his repetition of the word " _before_." As if he could tell that was my hangup, Sherlock sits up, my hand still on his chest.

He pulls me closer, lowering his voice an octave. “But I do now.” Then he kisses me, deeply this time. My breath catches, and the spark reignites. He has never gone on the offensive before, and it’s like he is trying to show me... that he is hungry for me too.

My hands are tangled in his hair again, so that I can pull him even closer to me. His tongue is inside of my mouth now, exploring, then receding, taking in new data. I nip his upper lip playfully, and he gasps. I smile, pushing him back onto the bed so that I am on top of him now, one leg on each side of his hips. His curls are spread out on the pillow like a halo, and his eyes have glazed look to them that I have never seen before, save the time he was drugged by Irene. I lean down, running my hands down his firm chest before pulling up his shirt. I kiss his navel as I run my hands up his flat stomach, glancing upward to make sure that I'm not overstimulating him. He sighs languorously, turning his head to the side, and I take the opportunity to leave a trail of kisses down his beautiful long neck. I love him like this, completely unraveled, no defenses up, all mine. Only mine. I can see the true Sherlock this way, without his mask. _  
_

His hand reaches up, feeling my chest as I kiss his throat. It is as if he is trying to memorize me, the feel of my skin. I want to memorize him. The feel of my lips against the tips of his fingers as I kiss them, the way he twists his hand into the pillow when I tangle my hand into his hair and nip softly along his jawline, down to his collarbone.

Finally, I sit up. “I think that’s enough for now.” I say, a little breathlessly. “We can progress to... er... more, later. I don’t want to push you too far too fast.”

He just stares up at me, pupils dilated, breathless. _Sherlock, at a loss for words._ Finally something I know more about. Something that I can do to make him like this.

“I think I might need a cold shower. Or something,” I say, trying to lighten the mood and distract us from what we really want to be doing.

He laughs, and pulls me down into the same position as before, folding himself over me. “Just sleep now, John.”  The birds start to chirp in the new day as I drift off. It reminds me of that time I slept alone in Sherlock’s bed, after the Fall. But this time, he's holding me. The dichotomy is unbelievable.

“I love you,” I mumble as I drift off.

 

* * *

John is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and eating toast. I'm making tea. Attempting to observe him without being noticed. Dark circles under his eyes: sleep deprivation not yet under control. Hair mussed: slight evidence of last night’s... distractions. Wearing that striped shirt, instead of those horrid lumpy jumpers he favors. They hide his small frame. I can see now that he has lost even more weight during our separation. He hasn’t been taking care of himself. I've been sitting down with him at meals more often than I would normally to make sure he eats. 

John still has panic attacks during the day. I sought to eliminate the factor of my absence by staying in the flat, but he made me go on cases after I did the experiment with the darts. I returned one day to see him in the midst of an attack, hyperventilating, and I tried the same swaddling technique I utilized last night. Slight improvement, but it makes me wonder how many attacks he doesn’t tell me about.

I shake my head. I shouldn’t have let things go so far last night. He's still too traumatized. I have been able to keep him to a certain limit so far, so that he can become reacquainted with my presence. His state of mind is still fragile. He did try to kill himself not that long ago. But my empirical brain seems to malfunction when it comes to being with John. And then, what he whispered as he was about to fall asleep caused a strange frisson throughout my body... I had to resist the urge to kiss him again.

I didn’t sleep after he dozed off, tried to observe whether John was having the nightmares again. None. I didn’t mind lying that way, holding him. That kind of physical contact is foreign to me, but it seemed... not completely unnatural, as I would have expected. Requires further study. It could be that my presence kept the nightmares at bay, but further trials are needed. We will just have to sleep in the same bed for several nights in a row. I will tell him it’s the only way to finish the experiment.

I walk over to the fridge to get the milk, stealing a look at John, trying not to smile at the bit of jam on his top lip. He sighs exasperatedly, putting the paper down.

“ _What_ , Sherlock? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Hmm?” I say, in the lightest tone possible, attempting to remain straight-faced. Not very successful. Hiding things from John is getting harder. It was much easier when he was unperceptive.

I place the tea and cups on the table. He pours us each a cup and I add milk. I barely resist urge to kiss the jam off his lip, sitting down. “I was just thinking that, though it seemed to have success last night, we're going to have to continue the experiment for several nights. And possibly different locations. My room for example. For more data.” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He rolls his eyes but smiles.

“Fine. Just let me know, your place or mine.” He laughs lightly, as if this were a joke. I cock my head to the side, observing him. I’m distracted by his mouth, pulled into that smile. Those teeth that playfully bit my lip last night. Run my tongue over the spot, remembering.

He sighs, seemingly unaware of my reverie. “Right, you wouldn’t get that one, would you.”  He gets up, walking over and putting his dish in the sink. Then he puts his hands on either side, his back to me, leaning against the countertop. Tension written in his back and shoulders. _What just happened?_ I get up instantly, walking over to stand behind him. I lift up my hand to touch his shoulder, then drop it. I'm still not entirely certain if my gestures of physical comfort are optimal. I have observed what John responds to and try to replicate it, but I’m still in the process of collecting data.

“John,” I say, and finally step forward so that I’m pressed up against his back, my chin on his shoulder. He sighs, leaning back against my chest. Positive reaction. I put my arms around him. I inhale again, closing my eyes, breathing in his scent: Earl Grey tea, wool jumpers, slight musk of warm leather. _John_.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He murmurs, and my eyes snap open in surprise. “Us, I mean.”  He turns around so that we are face-to-face. As much as we can be, that is, with the height difference. My hands rest on his shoulders ( _good? unclear)_ , and he holds my face in his.

A tear streaks down his face and he wipes it away in frustration. I frown. Why the sudden change from moments ago?

“I’ve been thinking about everything you said last night, about... your inexperience with intimacy, relationships, everything. You said it’s not your area. You get ‘bored.’ You told me when we met that you are married to your work. You don’t really know what it means to be in a relationship. You might not like it. You might... get bored with it, with  _me_. In fact, you said that sentiment was a ‘defect of the losing side,’ like it's a weakness. You might decide you don’t want to have any weaknesses after all. I wouldn’t be strong enough to handle it. Once I’m in something, I... I’m in it. And I won't be able to come back out of it. Sodding hell, it might already be too late.” He drops his hands, which makes me only clutch him tighter. _Involuntary reaction._

“I am willing to keep things the way they are for your sake. We can go back to being flatmates, or just colleagues, if you want.” He shuts his eyes.

Confusion. Surely we are past this. “John. I told you at the hospital that I didn’t care about labels, remember? I as good as told you... I believe the word _love_ was involved. And last night...” Words seem to be failing me. There is something starting to clench, deep in my stomach. _John, don’t you understand? How was I unclear?_

He opens his eyes, and sighs. “Sometimes, that isn’t enough. And you yourself said that you don’t know for sure what love really is, because you've never experienced it. I am just giving you a way out, if you want it. I can handle being how we were before you were gone. That’s enough. Knowing you are alive. Being near you again.” He looks down and away, trying to hide his expression, and pushes my arms off. I release him, let him go. He grabs his jacket, putting it on and starting to leave the room.

As he gets to the door, he pauses, and says over his shoulder, “I’ll give you some time to think about it. I will be able to deal with any decision you make. But you have to decide now, because I won’t be strong enough it if gets any farther. Losing you the first time almost killed me. As you well know.”  Then he walks away, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs, then the door opening and closing.

I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen, empty arms at my sides, staring at the empty room. The room that was now sans John. Wrong. Completely wrong.

Confusion, pain, despair. Not emotions I often experience. There is a strange twisting feeling in my stomach, again, like when I saw John on the bridge. I walk into the living room, over to the window. I can see John’s small figure in the distance, just about to turn off Baker street. Then he disappears around the corner.

Does he expect me to run after him? What does one do in this situation? Am I supposed to wait until he returns, pretend I have searched my soul, and tell him that I want him and only him?

_I do only want you John, I told you that more than once. Why do you still not believe it?_

My phone pings. I walk over and grab it from the table. Lestrade.

_Cardiff. Multi-jurisdiction case. It’s Christmas. -GL_

I frown. I would be gone far too long. I need to find John. My phone pings again.

_Four bodies within the last month, all unlinked, fingernails removed and placed around heads in a halo. Verse of a psalm on the wall. -GL_

Bugger. That _is_ like Christmas. Another serial killer. A Biblical serial killer. He knows I can’t turn it down.

With another look down the street, I turn on my heel to get dressed, typing a text as I walk.

 

* * *

I walk. I don’t know where I am going. Like those nights when I used to walk off the nightmares, after Sherlock died. Or rather, went away. I keep having to correct myself. I walk to make my brain stop spinning.

I expected him to come after me. Stop me. Tell me that I was being “ _Ridiculous. Seeing but not observing.”_ But he didn’t. More proof that he doesn’t understand relationships. Or maybe he wanted to give me space. _That doesn’t sound like Sherlock._

My phone pings. Sherlock. _Thank god._

_Case, Cardiff. Back tonight. SH_

I sigh, disappointment rippling through my whole body. I pull my collar up, stowing my phone in my pocket. I keep walking. I have a feeling it will be a long one.

 

* * *

I get dressed, pulling on that purple shirt John likes. He always seems to stare at me when I’m wearing it, licking his lips. Obvious sign of desire. Might prove useful later.

As I’m walking out of the flat, pulling my wool coat on, I see a black car in front of me. _Mycroft._

“Not now, Mycroft, I’m busy.” I turn and start walking toward the corner, but the window rolls down as the car follows me.

“Good morning, brother. Would you like a lift to the train station? We have matters to discuss.”

I roll my eyes and keep walking. _Of course he knows where I’m going._

“Are you going to make me talk to John instead?”

I stop short. “Talk to John about _what._ ” I clench my jaw, refuse to look right at him.

“Please get in.”  I sigh, exasperated. He used the only card he knew I couldn’t beat. I get in the vehicle, still refusing to look at him.

“ _What._ ”

“Wonderful to see you too, brother. Especially since I haven’t had the pleasure of your company since your _resurrection_.”

“I’ve been _busy_.”

“Clearly. Trying to restore your good name takes time. Especially when you are trying to stay with John most of the time.” Twiddles his umbrella in that annoying way. “But I think you may have a problem with the doctor. He seemed out of sorts at breakfast this morning.”  I come to a realization, slowly turning to look at him.

“ _Mycroft._ "

“Oh, calm down. I had the hidden cameras put in as a precaution after Moriarty escaped. I had no idea that certain.--ahem, _improprieties--_ would be recorded alongside possible assassins.”

My mind runs over what has happened between me and John. I feel my face start to flame with anger at the idea of Mycroft seeing...

“Take them out. _Now._ ”

“Oh don’t worry, they will be remived. I’m keeping the secure perimeter around Baker Street and I'll still have a detail on you and John. My men are quite keen after what happened last time to keep John safe.” 

My mouth twists at the memory. _Bloody Mycroft and his fools in suits._ They managed to let John get kidnapped by Moran right under their noses. I almost lost him because of their stupidity.

“Was there a _reason_ for this abduction?” I say, finally.

Mycroft twirls his umbrella again. Looks uncomfortable. Shifts in his seat, adjusts his waistcoat. Has gained 1.5 stone-- no, 1.7-- back since I last saw him. _Diet not going well, eh, Mycroft?_

He clears his throat, as if preparing to give a great speech. “I know you think I am usually completely removed from these matters. But I happen to have more experience than you think. I would never interfere in your personal life, as you know. I find it repugnant to do so in general. But... I want to keep you from making a mistake that could destroy any semblance of happiness you could have in this life. After all, not many people, men or women, can tolerate you.”

“Spit it out, Mycroft.” I'm losing patience and we're almost to the train station.

He sighs, as if he's trying to placate a difficult child. “I heard your conversation this morning with John. I know that relationships are not your _area_ , and you don’t necessarily understand what just transpired.” He pauses, and raises an eyebrow, looking at me.

I sulk. Don’t want to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“People like John need to be reassured, Sherlock. You believe that you have told him everything he needs to know, am I correct?” I just glare at him.

He takes that as assent. “John is not like us. You know that. Most ordinary people need to be reassured that their companions, partners, are truly committed. More than once. They don’t take one declaration, or one action, at face value. You forget all too often that most people can’t read your emotions as easily as you can read theirs.”

“But I alread--” I begin, but he cuts me off, holding up his hand.

“I know. I know that what you did for him, letting Moriarty escape to save him on the bridge, was the greatest declaration that could you could ever make. And I heard your conversation in the hospital room, through CCTV.”

I grind my teeth. “Is there any point when you _haven’t_ been listening in on my most personal conversations? Please, tell me, so I can _fill you in_ ,” I spit venomously.

Mycroft sighs again. “I knew you would react this way, which is why I tried not to interfere. But I can see that this is an important turning point. John thinks you’re not as deeply involved as he is. He believes, in some fashion, that you are trying to placate him out of guilt.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“My men have been combing the documents on his computer to see if Moriarty left any other clues. His private journal is in there.” I roll my eyes again.

We sit in silence for a moment. Finally Mycroft says, “All he wants is a reiteration, Sherlock. Surely you can do that? Rather than lose him? I know you used to think yourself a sociopath, incapable of feeling anything emotionally-- or physically-- for another human being. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure you were wrong, but I believe that the good doctor has revealed that to be inaccurate, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hmph.” We finally arrive at the station, and I open the door.

“Just one more thing, Sherlock. Do try to let him see the real you. Tell him what you are really thinking. For your own sake.”

I get out of the car and walk toward the station, my head whirring.

 

* * *

I’m sitting on the couch, trying to write a post for my blog. I write about Moriarty, about Moran. It’s proving unbelievably difficult to concentrate. Sherlock got back from Cardiff mere minutes ago, barely looking at me and going straight into the kitchen to start using his equipment. I try not to think about how much that hurts.

I had walked the streets of London for hours, aimlessly, finally wandering back to Baker Street, to the empty flat. The silence was deafening, his absence palpable. I turned on the telly but didn’t absorb any of it, just ticking away the minutes until Sherlock was back. And then when he finally returned, the bugger didn’t even look at me.

Sherlock is scrutinizing some human fingernails under his microscope (I decided not to ask why). He’s wearing that purple shirt. Bloody tosser. He knows how that shirt makes him look. The purple contrasts miraculously with his pale skin, making him look like dessert. I try not to look at him. I won’t make a move until he answers my question. _He will, won’t he?_

He doesn’t look at me, he's too absorbed in his work. That’s how he has always been. We go on this way for several hours.

At some point, he gets up and starts pacing around, finally walking over to the window where his violin is kept. He starts playing, in a frustrated way, yet the music he emotes is heavenly. I’m hypnotized. I watch the lines of his body as he plays, the way his long white neck caresses the rounded wood, his nimble fingers picking out the notes with apparent ease. I know this one. He says it helps him go into his mind palace. A Mendelssohn concerto. According to Sherlock, the more difficult the piece, the better, in terms of piecing a case together. _I play the violin when I'm thinking_ , he said the day we met. _Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other._ As if his playing could be considered a flaw. It’s one of the most exquisite things I have ever heard.

He stops abruptly in the middle of a phrase, placing his violin on the chair and pulling out his phone. He starts texting furiously, muttering under his breath. When he's done, he cracks a smile. I can’t help but smile too. “Solved?” I ask. The case is neutral territory. Safe. _  
_

“All but. Just sent my findings to Molly and Lestrade.” He paces smugly, flipping his phone in the air and catching it, then striding over to the window. He leans against the window frame and stares outside. This moment, the moment when he figures out the missing key to the case, is the best part. It’s the only joy he lets most of the world see. He's giddy with excitement, and it’s infectious.

And unbelievably sexy. I try to focus on my screen, rereading the sentence I just wrote. It’s complete gibberish. I angrily delete half a paragraph.

Finally he strides over to the couch, sitting next to me, his energy radiating from him. I keep typing laboriously, not really sure what I'm writing. I will myself not to look at him.

“John. John look at me.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. Finally I sigh, giving up, and my eyes shift up to meet his. His eyes are a particularly luminous greenish-blue today, and they're focused somewhere around my mouth.

“I missed you today. I wish... that you'd start coming with me again.” My heart clenches. He licks his lips. His pale skin above the shirt is like porcelain. _That purple shirt. Bugger._ It almost feels like there's electricity crackling between us, like the buzzing of power lines.

"You're not really going to withhold sex out of stubbornness, are you?" He says, smirking. I can't stop looking at his lips. 

“Toss it,” I say, throwing my computer down on the table next to me and practically jumping on him. He responds with as much (if not more) enthusiasm, pulling me on top of him. We are kissing recklessly, impassioned, as if we haven’t touched in years instead of mere hours. I start unbuttoning the smooth silk of his shirt, feeling the smooth skin underneath. I tug his hair, pulling his head backwards, kissing his throat. I pause, slowing down intentionally, and kiss each of his eyes as I unbutton the rest of the shirt.

“This. Shirt. Is. The. Bloody. Devil.” I say as I kiss each of his cheekbones, along his jaw and then the corners of his mouth. He shivers slightly. I could do this all day.

“You must have known it would do me in when you put it on, you tosser.” He smiles, eyes closed, an admission if I ever saw one.

“You...” I say as I start kissing down his chest where I have unbuttoned the shirt, “...are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” His breathing becomes more ragged, and he holds my head with both hands. As I move downward, my growing erection rubs against the front of his pants, causing friction, and he moans again. I pull off his shirt completely, throwing it aside.

I sit up slightly, staring down at him, and I unbuckle his belt, pulling it off but leaving his pants buttoned. He is looking up at me, pupils so dilated that the breathtaking beauty of his irises is all but obscured. He’s panting. Sherlock Holmes, completely unraveled.

“What are you doing?” He asks, as I use his belt to bind his hands above his head, holding them there with one hand. “You are in control of what we are going to be in the future, Sherlock,” I say, pausing before I continue.

“I’ve relinquished the power to you on that front. I meant what I said. So for right now I’m going to take control.”  His eyes widen just a little, but there is even more anticipation in his expression. I smirk.

“And I’m going to try and make you see what you have been missing, just so you have all of the _data_ before you make the decision. And besides, I couldn’t bear it if yesterday were the last time I ever kissed you, and I never knew it would be. If this is the last time, it bloody well better be a good one.” He is about to say something, but I lean down and kiss away the words, slowly, trying to memorize every minute detail of him. The way he smells, the taste and form of his lips. Time seems to stop around us and silence engulfs us. All I can hear is the sound of his breathing and his strong heartbeat. Finally, I lean back slightly to look in his eyes.

His eyes widen even further, if that is possible. He licks his lips again, raising an eyebrow, and whispers, “Well, Dr. Watson, it seems that you have me in an extremely compromising position. But I think one of us is wearing entirely too many clothes.”

I laugh, and say, “Fair enough.”  I sit up and pull my shirt over my head. Suddenly I wish I had turned off some lights. How could I possibly compare to the perfect body in front of me? But all I see in his eyes is that emotion I have not been able to place, yet. _What is it?_ He has never had that expression until recently, when he's looking at me.

Then his eyes shift to rest on my star-shaped shoulder scar. He makes a motion as if he wants to touch it, forgetting that his hands are pinned above his head. His mouth slants a bit, as if he is in pain, looking at it, and his eyes are pools of concern.

That completely undoes me. I lean down to kiss him, twisting my tongue with his, nipping his upper lip then lower, pushing him further than I have ever done. He moans again, a low guttural sound. He starts to move under me involuntarily. We both gasp as our bare torsos touch for the first time. I had no idea that more contact would cause the spark to ignite even more, even hotter. Like flame, burning heat. _  
_

I keep one hand on both of his above his head, running my other down his side, and start kissing down his throat again, this time down to his nipples. I encircle one with my tongue. He shudders.

“I’m guessing that no one has ever done that to you before?” I ask, chuckling. He shakes his head slightly, eyes still closed. The fact that he is so inexperienced makes me want him even more. This brilliant, strange, glorious genius. I am the only one he has ever allowed to do this. I pause, thinking about the magnitude of it all, realizing that I should stop, wait until he is certain. His eyes snap open, black with desire, looking straight into mine like he can see right into my very being. “John,” he says, looking at me intently.

I forget my hesitation, abandoning reason to lose myself in him. At least this last time. I bend down to swirl my tongue around his other nipple, palming his erection over his trousers at the same time. He lets out the loudest moan yet.

“You _might_ want to be a bit quieter, or the married ones next door will start to suspect something,” I lean in to whisper. He looks at me curiously, panting. “What--what are you talking about?” 

“You’re moaning. Quite loudly.” I smile again at the confusion on his face. He’s obviously completely unaware of it. “Actually, scratch that. Moan all you like. I rather like it,” I say, finally leaning down to kiss him on the mouth once more, still trapping his hands above his head.

“OH! Oh dear!” I suddenly hear from the doorway, and my head snaps up. Mrs. Hudson is there with a plate of crumpets. _Bugger._

“I’m ever so sorry, dears... the door was open, and I knocked...” she seems to be trying not to laugh while averting her eyes. “I-- will just leave these here.” She puts them down on the table, flapping about a bit, and heads back to the stairs. As she is going down, she pauses and yells back up, “Good for you, loves, took you long enough!”

We are still in the same compromising position, me on top of Sherlock, one hand holding his hands above his head, one hand tangled in his hair.

"Do you think she suspects anything?" Sherlock says in complete deadpan. We look at each other, and burst out laughing.

“Well, she will have something to gossip about with the neighbors, now,” I say, relinquishing my hold on his hands, freeing them from the belt, and swinging myself off Sherlock to sit on the couch. He frowns, as if he’s unhappy with this turn of events.

“I think that’s probably as far as we should go for now anyway,” I say, putting my undershirt back on. He frowns even deeper, glaring at the offending piece of clothing. “Especially since I’m getting myself more emotionally involved by the second, which is dangerous, since I still don’t know your answer.”

His eyes are still so dilated that they appear black, his hair is disheveled marvelously and his pale skin is tinted with a hint of flush. I want to run my hands through that hair again, tug it, make him moan, kiss that translucent skin. It takes all my willpower to ball my fists at my sides. He tilts his head, and looks at me.

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“The face, the one that says we both really know what’s going on here. And I _don’t_.” I run my hand through my hair exasperatedly. I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.

He sighs as if I am incredibly slow and he is going to have to catch me up. I think I hear him mutter something that sounds like, _“Bloody Mycroft.”_

He sits up next to me, pulling my head around to look at him. I try not to look at his perfectly sculpted chest. “John, isn’t it obvious? I just told you, showed you the answer moments ago. You see, but you don’t _observe_. Look at the facts."

“ _What_ facts? This isn’t a bloody case. Just _tell_ me, you tosser.”  I am too frustrated to play Sherlock’s deduction game right now.

“Fine." He raises one finger. "One. You were worried that I wouldn’t like the physical side. That I would be bored. I think we can both agree _pointedly_ that is not the case." He clears his throat and I resist the urge to giggle.

He raises another finger. “Two, you quoted that I said I was married to my work, and that I wasn’t looking for anything. I said that because I wasn’t _looking_ for anything. I never have. But apparently something found _me_. You.” He pauses, and smiles, and my hand involuntarily reaches up to touch his cheek. His eyelids flutter a bit, but then he is back to business.

“Furthermore, once you start coming back with me to crime scenes, you are _part_ of my work. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I am about to object, but he talks over me.

“Three. You were worried that I would want to leave you. That I wouldn’t like a relationship. But I have already told you John, on the bridge. I will never leave you again. We lived together, worked together, and spent most of our time together. On my end it worked smashingly, until I had to leave to save you. Other than sex, which I assume is something that will soon follow, what else is there in a ‘real’ relationship?”

I open my mouth, and close it, imagining what would _‘soon follow.’_ “Well, er. Nothing.”

“Four. You are worried that I think this is a weakness, a defect that I will regret. But I told you that you are what makes me whole. You make me _stronger_. The only weakness is that Moriarty knows you are my pressure point, and I think we both know that he has exhausted that option, don’t we?” I shrug in affirmation. I’m starting to feel more hopeful, if still guarded.

His thumb goes up. “Five, you seem to still think that this is all my residual guilt for leaving you, and that I am just trying to keep you happy. Don’t deny it.” I start to protest, wondering how he could possibly know that. “I would never enter into this kind of thing because of _guilt_ , John.”

He smiles. “So there you have it.” I look at him, still not sure.

He takes both of my hands in his. “John, I did feel guilty. I felt all the pain I put you through times ten, because I was its source.  But you can’t constantly second-guess my motives or find reasons to push me away because you are still afraid I will leave again.”

I try to attempt a smile, but I’m sure it looks more like a grimace.

“Oh, come on, really John? Do I have to actually say it in so many words?” I raise an eyebrow in my best impression of him.

He laughs, giving in. “Fine. I love you, John Watson, and I am never leaving you. I told you that you are my heart, what makes me whole. It took the Hamlet fiasco for me to truly realize it. I suppose we should send Moriarty flowers and a thank you note.” He twists his mouth into a strange grin at that. I snort.

“I personally thought that I had settled all of these questions, but I will reiterate it as many times as it takes. You are not forcing me into it. I don’t feel obligated to kiss you as some strange form of penance.” He holds both of my shoulders, making me look at him. “Problem?” He looks at me as if he is scrutinizing a corpse, and I almost laugh, but instead I pull him onto the floor and the most sensational kiss I have ever experienced in my life.

 

* * *

I can tell now that John has been holding back, worried about pushing me too far, or letting himself go over the edge. Now it is as if we are consuming each other, as if nothing is left between the two of us. Time has no meaning, there is only the feeling of John’s lips, the sweetness of his breath, the feel of his taut muscles under my fingertips. At some point, both of us lost our trousers. We are both only in pants now, better. Less between me and John. All I want is him. Always. _  
_

For a moment, he stops, sitting back on his heels. I am barely aware of my surroundings. He stands up. _No...?_

He puts his hand out, panting as he pulls me up off the floor. “Bedroom. Now.” His voice is low, husky. “There are things I want to do to you that are not going to be very comfortable on the floor.”

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. I turn and stumble down the hallway, slightly dazed, into my bedroom. John follows, still holding my hand, as if he would never let go.

We finally reach the door when John turns me around and pulls my head down for an especially ravenous kiss. He kicks the door shut with his foot and we walk, still embracing, until my legs hit the bed and we fall backwards.

We are all a tangle of limbs, awkward, unbalanced, and I don’t mind in the slightest. John pulls my head back and starts kissing my throat again.

“Do you have some kind of fascination with my neck?” I manage to gasp.

“It. Is. Gorgeous.” He mumbles between kisses. “It’s the most beautiful throat I have ever seen. I would do this all day if I could. I want to consume you, all of you.” He nips the base of my throat, harder this time.

I moan again. I hadn’t realized I was doing that until he mentioned it. I feel his hot breath on my ear, as he whispers, “I’m going to make you come, Sherlock. I want to be the only one, your first, and your last.” I feel my heart hammering and I try to hold back a desperate whimper.

He continues to suck at my neck, teeth biting the skin. Probably will leave a mark. I can feel a new, almost violent heat starting to pool deep inside, more visceral than I have ever felt before. There is nothing, no world outside, cases, nothing. Only John. It’s the most painful and the most pleasurable sensation in the world. _La douleur exquise,_ I believe is the French phraseology. The exquisite pain.

He strokes down my side, and his eyes are full of wonder, as if I were some miraculous being that he were seeing for the first time. It arouses me even more, if that's possible. I pull his head down so that I can kiss him again, biting his lip, which makes him inhale sharply, then he kisses me even more deeply, and we are all tongues and lips and teeth and _oh god, John_...

He breaks away, pushing me back down to the pillow, despite my protests. He smiles, and moves down so that his head is near my hips. He pulls down my pants, throwing them on the floor, and strokes up my thighs, planting a kiss on each one. I throw my head back, unable to watch. He takes me in his hand starts to stroke me, up and down. His hand on me is like electricity, like a million neurons are firing all at once. I make some kind of guttural noise, which makes him smile even more. “Are you ok, Sherlock? Tell me if it is too much.” It’s all I can do to shake my head. My heart is pounding, my whole body is covered in sweat. I’m clutching the bed covers at my sides.

“I’m going to take you in my mouth now. Are you ready for that?” He says, his eyes concerned. “John, bloody hell, John, do it, do anything.” I gasp. It’s like someone else is saying the words. _Out-of-body experience. Another interesting development._

He starts to lean down and says, “I have never done this before, from this end... so bear with me.”

Then his mouth is around me, tongue encircling, one hand moving around to cup me from behind. From somewhere far away I hear someone yelling loudly, something along the lines of “ _John_ , oh god, John...”

I’m undone. I’m all sensation. Everywhere. Thirty-odd years of unspent sexual energy must do that. Magnified by a thousand times with John. I have never experienced this force of nature before. Never wanted to.

His tongue twirls around my glans as he moves his hand down my shaft, then he takes my cock all the way down his throat, hollowing his cheeks. With one hand, he teases my balls, causing me to arch into him, and it's all I can do to stop myself from rutting into his mouth.

Finally, after an eternity or no time at all, the entire cosmos seems to split apart, and I’m left in the wreckage, panting and shivering. John clambers up the bed to kiss me. I can taste myself in his mouth, which almost causes me to stiffen again. He whispers, “I love you too.”

“W-what?” I manage to gasp. His face cracks into a grin. “You screamed some things in French I didn't understand, then ‘I love you’ when you came. The married ones must be having a laugh.” I manage to cock my head and look at him with one raised eyebrow, which makes him chuckle (as I knew it would). My senses are starting to return to normal, but everything still has a strange haze to it, a surreality.

“Well. One cannot be held completely responsible for what comes out of one’s mouth mid-coitus.” He snorts.

He leans up on one elbow, evaluating me. “Are you sure you are all right?” he asks, looking me up and down.

I sigh. “John, will you stop asking me that? Does it _look_ like I didn’t enjoy myself? That was the most-- I think the term is _mind-blowing--_ thing I have ever experienced. Physically, at least.” He smiles broadly.

My breath is starting to even out a little, and I realize that John is shifting uncomfortably. 

So far I have let him lead, because he seems to enjoy it, and I have little experience in the area. But now I quickly pull him down onto the bed and straddle him, laughing at his surprise.

First, I start with his scar. I had wanted to touch it earlier, but my hands were otherwise engaged. I run my fingers along the scar, feeling the raised skin. Then I lean down and kiss it, softly. Kissing away the physical pain that it evidences, and the psychological pain which I worsened by leaving. His eyes close, and his back arches a little bit. I smirk, and I kiss down his torso, circling my tongue around his navel, replicating what he did to my nipple earlier (he gasps), then kissing down the v line of his hip and nipping at a particularly sensitive spot. I stop, looking up to see the effect. His hand is tangled in my hair again, and his eyes are closed, his head thrown back in pleasure. _Success._

I pull down his pants, kissing as I go, until they are down far enough that he is able to kick them off. I hold his cock in my hand, and he is breathing unevenly now, looking at me, his eyes dark. I smile, keeping my eyes on him as I encircle the head with my mouth.

“Oh, _christ_ , Sherlock!” He gasps, bucking involuntarily, as I start to move up and down, tasting the saltiness, the fullness of John, as he starts to moan. He twists one hand in my hair and clutches the headboard behind his head with the other, as if he is afraid he might fall off the earth. I swirl my tongue around him, and pull him deeper down my throat, which he seems to enjoy, yelling my name and some other profane language. I am able to swallow him all the way down without choking, and John groans loudly, his eyes closed. I keep looking at his face, his beautiful face, mine. He is mine. I am his. He clenches his fist in my hair, not tugging, just encouraging.

I pick up the pace, and finally he screams, “ _Sherlock_!” I swallow, and he collapses back onto the bed. I creep back up his now-limp body, his eyes are closed, his face flushed in bliss. I clasp both of his hands, which are haphazardly thrown up by his head, with both of mine, intertwining our fingers. I kiss him again. His eyes are still closed, but he responds to my kiss in an unhurried but contented way.

“You’re quite good at that,” he says breathlessly.

“Your performance was more than satisfactory as well, Doctor,” I say, kissing the sweat from his forehead.

He snorts again. “If you are going to keep calling me _Doctor_ when we are in bed, I’m going to start calling you Mr. Holmes.”

“Of course, Doctor.” I lean up, grinning at him, resting on my elbows, holding his face in my hands. “I love you, John,” I say, very deliberately this time. I am starting to realize that saying it more than once is less repetitious than I had originally anticipated. Almost as if the effect were cumulative; it becomes more true the more times I repeat it. _Curious phenomenon. I wonder if any other words in the English language have the same effect._

“Ah, _that’s_ what it is,” John says, cracking that ridiculous grin again. I look at him, curiously.

“Problem?” I quip jokingly.

He laughs. “I just figured something out. You have a new look these past few weeks, a look I had never seen before, only when you are looking at me. Almost as if you were seeing me, really seeing me, for the first time. And I just figured out why.”

“Well, it’s obvious, John.”

“Oh, really? Why’s that?”

I lay down, pulling him against me, his back to my front again. “Of course. You see but you don’t observe, as usual.” I brush his hair with my hand, briefly, kissing the back of his head.

“It’s because you love me.”

“Precisely.”

He sighs, and turns around to face me. I prop my head up on my hand. He reaches a hand up to feel my cheek, running his thumb along the bone. He seems to like doing that.

"I love you, too," he says, almost shyly. My lips twitch upward slightly.

He reaches up to run his fingers over my lips, and I open them to suck on the tips of his fingers lightly. John sighs, content. “How can someone as brilliant, mad, wonderful, strange, and beautiful as you be meant for me?” He murmurs.

I hesitate. _Let him see who you really are, Mycroft said._ “I could say the same thing to you,” I return earnestly, and his eyes fill again with tears. He turns his head toward the pillow as they overflow. I take his face in both my hands and kiss away the drops, trying once again to kiss away the pain that I put him through. The pain of loss that I still haven’t been able to erase, not yet. But I’m learning. I can fill the void with hours, days, years of this. Finally the tears stop, and I kiss both his eyelids, settling him back against the pillow, holding him.

“I will never leave again, John. I can’t promise I won’t die someday, but I will never leave you voluntarily again.”

“Quite right. And you are not allowed to die. Ever. Or I’ll kill you.”

“Oh shut up and sleep.”  I tuck his head under mine, and he sighs, resting his head on my chest. I have never slept more soundly in my life.

 

* * *

I don’t have the nightmares that night. Or for several nights after that.  Despite my protests, Sherlock always comes with me when I go to bed every evening.  _‘For the experiment,’_ he says. We usually go to his bed because it is on the same floor, though I wonder more than once if this is wise due to the thin walls (Mrs. Hudson’s room is directly below). Of course, we don’t sleep right away. Being with Sherlock is always different, and his vulnerability and passion never cease to amaze me. It’s magnetic, electrifying. I want him more every time. Once we have lost ourselves in each other for what seems like ages, he always pulls me to him and wraps those long limbs around me while I drift off.

After more than a week of no nightmares, I wake up screaming as he falls in my dreams. Sherlock had apparently released me in his sleep and was curled up on the far side of the bed. He wakes up, bleary-eyed and stunned, as I sit against the headboard shaking and covered in cold sweat. He sits up, his eyes widening, as if he were the one in pain.

“Oh, John. John. I’m sorry.”  He pulls me onto his lap and I rest my head on his chest, trembling, still remembering the nightmare. After a few minutes, my heart stops pounding quite so fast and I concentrate on making my breathing even. Sherlock still holds me to him.

“What does it feel like?” He asks, finally.

I hesitate. “What does what feel like?”

“John.” He knows that I know what he is asking.

I sigh, moving my head slightly upward to his neck, inhaling his scent. It calms me even more. “It’s like... I'm falling too. Like everything is ending. Like I'm being ripped apart as your body crunches against the pavement. Sometimes I wake up when I see your body sprawled on the ground covered in blood. Sometimes I wake up right as you jump. That’s the part that is the most shattering. That you wouldn’t listen when I told you I still believed in you. That you chose to kill yourself rather than face the infamy that wasn’t even real.”

“But I didn’t kill myself, John. I’m right here.”

“I _know_. I know that empirically. But in my subconscious there is still always the part of you that chose to... leave me. I know that’s incredibly selfish, but the images I lived with for three years, the ones of you dead, are still what dominate my mind.”

I feel something wet drip down on my cheek. I look up. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and his mouth is set in a firm line. Tears are running down his cheeks, drops of them falling onto me like rain.

I sit up, taking his face in my hands. I do what he did to me that first night, kissing the tears off his cheeks, softly. I feel a strange clenching in my stomach, seeing his pain. 

He opens his eyes, more tears spilling over. His eyes are even more beautiful this way, if that’s even possible. “I never told you, John, but that’s an accurate description of how I felt when I saw you on London Bridge that day. Like the core of my being was being ripped to shreds. I know that my apparent suicide was real to you, and you had to live with that for years. But in that split second on the riverbank, I imagined a world without you, and suddenly nothing made sense. Like reality had been erased. That’s why I didn’t want to take cases at first. I wanted to stay with you, to reassure myself that you were still alive.”

I stop, dropping my hands, shocked. I didn’t realize that he had been so affected by that day. He never let on about it. The circumstances were, after all, not that different. I was about to kill myself because of him. The difference is that I wouldn’t have faked my death, it would have been real. In some ways, what I was about to do had been more selfish than anything Sherlock had put me through.

“I-- I had no idea,” I finally stammer. Sherlock takes both of my hands in his.

“It might take some time, John, but we will both get used to the fact that we are both still here. Together. I promise. I will have to fill your mind with images of me, alive and well, so that the others are pushed far back in your subconscious. And vice versa.” He lowers his eyes, and says quietly, “I believe it would help both of us if you started working with me again. That’s what cured your limp after all.”

I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I've been refusing because I was afraid looking at the bodies of murder victims would trigger my panic attacks.”

He peers at me, wide-eyed, as if this had never occurred to him. I chuckle. “Considering you're the most observant genius in the world, sometimes you can be an outright dunce, you know that?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but instead just leans down to kiss me with a fervor that I have never felt from him. I am lost in it almost immediately, and he pushes me down so that he is on top of me, starting to pull my sleeping shirt up...

“Sherlock,” I finally say as I break away. I look at him, and his eyes are still full of that pain, the pain that makes me want to sob and hold him and lose myself in him all at the same time. I have to close my eyes in order to get the words out.

“Sherlock, we can’t always use sex as a way to make pain go away. It’s not healthy. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

We look at each other for a moment, then we both start laughing. Even though my comment was not actually that funny, we both keep laughing hysterically for several moments, releasing all the nervous energy.

After a few moments, Sherlock rests his forehead on my chest, wipes a tear from his eye, sighs and gets up.

He holds out his hand. “Well, _Doctor_ , I think we should get you out of those clothes and into the shower.” I raise an eyebrow. Is this a trick to get me into the shower with him? _Not that I would mind... too much._

“Don’t worry, I’ll just go make us some tea.” He grins, reading my mind.

I roll my eyes and take his hand, and he pulls me to a standing position. He is only wearing pyjama bottoms, so he grabs his dressing robe and throws it on as we leave the room. I walk into the bathroom and he starts down the hall to the kitchen. As he walks down the darkened corridor, suddenly I don’t want him to leave, even to go to the other room. Fear gathers in the pit of my stomach again.

“Sherlock,” I choke out. He stops abruptly, turning around, face full of concern.

“John?”

“Could you just sit in here while I’m in there? I...” I feel embarrassed, like a child wanting a night light because there is a monster under the bed.

He doesn’t say a word. He strides back quickly, his robe fanning out behind him. He pulls me into his arms again, and we just stand there for a few minutes. I feel like I will never get used to this. Holding Sherlock. Real, alive. _Mine._

Finally he releases me, holding me by the shoulders and saying, “Better?” I nod curtly, and turn to go in the bathroom. He walks in behind me and closes the door. I lean against the sink as he turns on the shower, then turns back to me. Without prompting, he peels my soaked undershirt up over my head, throwing it in the hamper. I untie my pyjamas, and he pulls them down as I step out of them. As he stands up, running his hands up my thighs, I can see the desire radiating out of his eyes, and it’s infectious. I can’t help but touch his chest. He is starting to fill out a bit more now that he is eating. He closes his eyes as I slide my hand down his side to his waist. He opens them and looks at me, his pupils dilated fully.

“John. You know I have less willpower than you when it comes to this,” he whispers, without much sign of real protest. He steps a little closer.

“You’re like a bloody magnet. I feel like a planet trapped in the sun’s gravitational pull. I can’t help it. Maybe this is how we are supposed to heal each other. I don’t know. But I want you more every bloody minute.” With that, like a seal breaking, we both lean in to kiss at the same time, recklessly, vociferously. I slide the robe off his shoulders, and he is already pulling his pyjama bottoms off as we walk toward the shower. The hot steam filling the room is making his hair even curlier, and beads of condensation form all over his sculpted body like dew.

We step into the shower, the stream of hot water washing over both of us, but we don’t break away from each other. When we are like this, our tongues twisting together, my hands tangled in his hair, feeling the fullness of his lips and the lines of his body pressed up to mine, it’s like my whole being is galvanized, pulled towards him. It’s hard to imagine how I could ever stop.

He pulls my erection into his hand as we are still embracing, and I gasp as his hand starts to move up and down. I do the same, and all there is in the world is Sherlock’s lips, his hand on me, him in mine, until both of us scream our release and collapse against each other. We don’t let each other go even then, as Sherlock pulls me directly under the water and holds my head in his hands, kissing me softly, sucking my bottom lip. He finally pulls back, and the water streaming down his face makes him look strangely angelic. I raise both my hands to hold his head as well, his high cheekbones under my fingers. I could get lost in his eyes. It’s like every color in the spectrum is contained in them: gold, yellows, blues, greens. My universe is in those eyes.

“John,” he starts to say, but can’t seem to find the words. He hesitates, then says, “thank you... for not dying. And... for forgiving me.”

“I could say the same to you,” I respond, pulling his head down to kiss him again.

 

* * *

After the night the nightmares returned, I don’t sleep for several nights. I wait until John falls asleep, holding him, and I lay awake all night. I feel his breathing under my chest, the soft rise and fall. No nightmares. Must figure out a way to make myself stay in this position even while sleeping. I make excuses for my apparent lack of rest. I can tell John suspects something, but he says nothing.

One day, I am finally able to convince him to come to a crime scene. Not a particularly gruesome murder, just an apparent poisoning. Less likely to trigger him. We arrive at the flat in central London, Donovan outside. Obviously sleeping with Anderson again: smells like his deodorant. I try not to scrunch my nose in repugnance, but I don’t point it out. John wouldn’t like it.

We are halfway up the stairs the the first floor when I feel John pause behind me. I turn to look down at him, my coat swirling around me.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Sherlock,” he says, his face a mask of anxiety. I step down below him, so that his face is level with mine. I take his hand into my leather-gloved one, and with the other pull his face in for a short, chaste kiss.

“I’m right here,” I say quietly.

“Bloody hell!!” Donovan’s voice. _Brilliant._ I close my eyes briefly, open them to glance at John, his face written with surprise.“Sorry,” I say briefly, then turn to face her.

She and Lestrade are standing at the foot of the stairway. Lestrade: gaping at us, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Donovan: arms crossed, aggressive stance.

“Problem?” I say, clasping my hands behind my back and glaring down at them.  They both continue to stare at us for what seems like an eternity. Then I hear John start to laugh beside me, and I can’t help but smile, raising an eyebrow and looking at him.

All anxiety erased from his face. Good. Not angry with me for effectively outing us to the London Police force. In fact, laughing so hard he is starting to clutch his stomach.

“So, you two are... erm. You know?” Lestrade starts to say.

“What we are is none of your business, frankly. Now what’s this about the poison? White oleander? Unnecessarily elegant way to murder a housewife.” I grab John’s hand, turn my back on their stares, and start walking up the stairs.

As we reach the top and turn out of their view, I face him. “I’m sorry John. I know you might not have been ready for that. I wasn’t thinking,” I say in a low tone.

John reaches up to kiss me briefly. I can’t help but crack into what I can only imagine is a ridiculous grin. “I love the fact that I can make _you_ stop thinking, even for a moment,” he says. “I love you. Now let’s do this.” He turns, facing the doorway to the bedroom where the body is, steeling himself into his soldier’s stance, and walks in.

 

* * *

I start working on cases again. Life settles back into its old pattern, like before Sherlock was gone. It's almost surreal. Sometimes, though, a corpse at a crime scene will become Sherlock in my mind, and I have to turn away until I can get my breath under control. One day there was a particularly bloody murder-- a dark haired man in a long coat had been pushed off a roof-- and I had to run around the corner to vomit. In a rare rage, Sherlock yelled at Lestrade for a good half hour for not warning us ahead of time, until I pulled him away. After that, Lestrade and the rest of the police have been almost too kind about the fact that Sherlock and I are together. I don’t mind in the slightest.

The panic attacks are less and less frequent. The nightmares all but stop. It’s rare that I wake up screaming, but when it does happen, Sherlock holds me until the terror subsides.

Months pass. Every day is new, waking up to feel his arms around me, feel his breath on my face. To see his eyelashes fanned out against that translucent skin as he sleeps. To wake him up with a kiss and feel his smile under my lips.

Now, I’m sitting on the couch, typing, while Sherlock plays the violin by the window. It’s nearing Christmas, and snow is falling outside silently. I am finally finishing my book about Sherlock’s return, complete with evidential proof that Moriarty is real. I finally settled on the title: “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

He is playing the violin solo of the Brahms concerto in D major. He knows it’s one of my favorites. His eyes are closed, and the way his body moves in response to the music makes me want to walk over and interrupt him with a kiss. But not yet. I won’t disturb him until the piece is finished. In a flash, I have a vision of us in the future. That we will be doing exactly this, me sitting here writing, him playing, for many years to come.

I type the final sentence of my book, and look out the window. The snowflakes twirl as they fall, dancing and weaving. Like a beautiful dream.

 

 

THE END


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